


Sons of Winter

by taizi



Series: Problem Child [2]
Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Gen, problem child
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-19 01:11:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4727147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taizi/pseuds/taizi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in my "Problem Child" 'verse, this is the story of how Hamato Yoshi found four brothers living on the street, and took them in; and how he learned by doing so that there is a wide gulf between taking someone into your home, and taking them into your heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An anon on fanfiction requested a fic set in my Problem Child ‘verse, about “how Leo and the guys were, before Splinter found them.” 
> 
> I know I said I wanted to take more general prompts at the moment, but this one stuck out to me. There’s so much I won’t be able to share about the boys’ past in Problem Child, because Mikey’s the one telling that story and he just doesn’t remember very much about the situation they were in before Yoshi came along, given how young he was at the time. 
> 
> So I’ll indulge myself a little, and make this a pretty short threeshot.

The first time Yoshi saw one of them, it was in the heart of Chinatown. He’d heard from a colleague about a nice restaurant there, and with an hour free for lunch, Yoshi decided to seek it out. 

_It was,_ he decided, halfway through a bowl of the best  _udon_ he could remember tasting in the United States,  _a good decision._

The kindly blind chef was cleaning his work station behind the counter, and Yoshi might have spoken up to compliment the meal, had he not been interrupted by the soft chime of the bells above the door. 

“Welcome,” Murakami called out, and Yoshi was unprepared to hear a child’s voice reply.

“Hi, Mr. Murakami.”

Yoshi couldn’t help turning in his stool to glance at the young one; the boy couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old, and unaccompanied by parents, that was certainly strange. Murakami’s weathered face warmed with his smile, and he beckoned the child closer. 

“Donatello, how are you? You’ve come alone today?”

Donatello- an unusual name- took a few steps forward, his eyes darting from the storeowner to Yoshi, where he sat at the counter. Something timid crept into his round brown eyes, and he folded his hands together tightly. 

"Yeah, it’s- Leo didn’t want Raph to go out, and Mikey won’t go anywhere without him, so it’s just me. I’m- I’m really sorry, you’re usually empty now- ”

It was late afternoon; Yoshi knew from his neighbor, who owned a large diner, that restaurants usually experienced a lull in business between two and four. It struck him as odd that a child would know that, too.

“I’ve told you countless times, you are always welcome here,” Murakami said, with a hint of mild reprimand in his voice as he turned back to a few simmering pots. “Now come sit, eat some soup. I just made a batch of  _udon_ noodles for Hamato-san, here,” he said, as Donatello stepped up to the counter obediently. He nodded shyly at Yoshi, and Yoshi couldn’t help smiling back. “And I know how found you are of  _tempura,_ I have some extra here.”

"Um, I’d rather- if it’s okay, I mean- just take something back with me? For my brothers?”

“Of course, of course.” Murakami’s back was to the child, but Yoshi could see only part of his face, and watched his mouth turn down. “Raphael is still sick?”

“Yeah. I think it’s just ‘cause it’s so cold.” And Yoshi noticed- suddenly, sharply- that the boy was not wearing any coat or gloves, not even a hat; just jeans and a thin jumper, and a duct-taped bookbag hanging over one shoulder. His nose and the tips of his ears were red with cold, and Yoshi wondered if he was holding his hands together more for warmth than out of anxiety. “Leo says he’ll be okay, though.”

“Well, it’s a good idea to listen to Leonardo, isn’t it?” Murakami said gently, turning back to face the boy. “He always seems to know what’s best. And I know he won’t mind if you have a bowl of soup while you wait.”

Donatello grinned at that, gap-toothed and grateful, and climbed into one of the stools at the counter. He tucked into the steaming bowl Murakami set before him so heartily that Yoshi felt a thread of honest concern worm its way into gentle amusement as he watched sidelong. 

The boy was poorly dressed for such a cold day, and hungry. Yoshi had a dozen questions, but he managed to swallow them. It would be wrong of him to pry answers from a child.

It was almost time for him to head back to his office, but he couldn’t help lingering; nursing a cup of warm tea as Murakami helped the boy bundle a large clay pot, wrapped in several towels, into his backpack, with a few plastic containers to go with it. 

“Curry and rice,” he said, with a knowing wink. “Raphael’s favorite. And there are _taiyaki_ in there as well, for Michelangelo." 

"Thank you so much, Mr. Murakami!” the boy said brightly, as the storeowner helped him back into his backpack. “Me and Leo will be back tomorrow, to help you in the kitchen.”

“I look forward to it.” He returned Donatello’s wave at the door, and only sighed when the boy had gone. “Those boys. Leonardo wouldn’t accept any help from me if I hadn’t offered him work in my store. He feels better when he can earn the food for his family, as though it’s shameful to accept any kindness in the form of charity.”

With a shake of his head, he returned to wiping down the counter, and Yoshi felt somewhat staggered by the events of the last thirty minutes or so. “I apologize,” he said, slowly, “but I must ask… Those children are- homeless? Have they any parents? Or a guardian?”

“Not that I’m aware of. From what I’ve seen, Leonardo takes care of them. I don’t know very much about them, honestly- I only saw them for the first time a few months ago. They haven’t always been in this area. They were probably- probably abandoned.”

Something sick curled in the pit of Yoshi’s stomach, and his fingers tightened around his cup so hard it threatened to crack. 

“And how old,” he found himself asking, quietly, “is Leonardo?”

Murakami didn’t look up from his methodical cleaning, and answered only after a long moment had gone by. 

“He is ten.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I've decided these chapters will probably all be pretty short; there isn't very much story here that I want to tell while Problem Child is still ongoing. I'd hate to give anything away! So I'll go bits and pieces, as this is mostly just one big drabble, after all, and hopefully that's okay. (:

 When the bell above the door signaled a new customer, Yoshi turned on his stool—to find himself already under the scrutiny of a pair of cool blue eyes.

The boy in the doorway was a slight, short little thing, with a scruffy hoodie hanging off his thin frame and a toddler hoisted carefully in both arms against his hip. The smaller of the two was bundled up much more carefully, and blinked around the warm interior of the restaurant with bright eyes.

"You're Hamato-san," the boy said evenly, without preamble, and Yoshi knew better than to mistake the respect in his voice for any modicum of trust. "You brought my brother Donnie books."

"Yes," Yoshi said politely. In the past week or so, he had frequented the small Japanese restaurant almost every day for lunch, and had become something of a conversation partner for the bright, brown-eyed child. Donatello often leaned over the counter with a sudden query about stars or science or automobile engines, filled to the brim with a curiosity that touched every part of the world. With no parent at home to answer his limitless questions—only, by the sound of things, a slightly-older brother who did the best he could—Donatello reached past his initial, nervous misgivings of Yoshi for the sake of _knowing,_ and it endeared him to Yoshi in a way the man could not have anticipated. "I hope he liked them. He seemed quite interested in—well, everything. I wasn't sure what he might enjoy."

The boy didn't answer right away, and seemed to stare straight into the core of Yoshi's soul with those x-ray eyes. The moment stretched into something that might have become uncomfortable, had the child not blinked, and dropped maybe a tenth of his guard, with a soft, "He really liked the one about mechanics."

"Is that one of my little turtles?" Murakami called kindly from behind the counter, and the boy's gaze flitted to a spot behind Yoshi, drawing himself up a little taller and smiling, although the blind man couldn't see it.

"Yes, it's Leonardo," he said. "I brought Mikey with me, but he'll be good. He has a coloring book."

Unbundled, the toddler looked closer to a child of maybe preschool age, small and freckled and, as far as Yoshi could tell, perpetually smiling. Leonardo draped his coat and scarf over a chair at a small table to one side, out of the way, and pulled an activity book out of the slim messenger bag hanging at his side.

"No coloring on the table or walls," he said firmly, a dilapidated pack of crayons held just out of reach until Mikey nodded solemnly; at which point Leo handed them over, and rubbed a fond hand through the smaller boy's mop of tousled curls. "There are snacks in here for you if you get hungry," he added, setting the bag on the table alongside the book. "Stay right here, okay?"

"'kay!"

And with that Leonardo hurried around the counter, only shooting Yoshi one more cursory glance under his dark fringe. And it was possibly, generously six minutes after Mikey's earnest vow not to move that Yoshi felt a solid tug on the hem of his coat, and looked down into the bluest eyes he had ever seen.

"Well, hello, little one," he said warmly, and Mikey's little face lit up at the positive attention. The child then clambered laboriously onto the stool beside Yoshi's, and pointed at the chopsticks in his hand.

"What's that?"

Lifting the utensils, Yoshi said, "These are chopsticks. In mine and Murakami-san's homeland, these are what we use to eat with."

Mikey blinked, considering this, and after a moment, reached for a pair of his own from the receptacle on the counter. Pulling them from their paper sleeve and clumsily breaking them apart, he held one stick in each hand and promptly looked at Yoshi for instruction.

Leonardo found him there almost ten minutes later, spearing the shrimp out of Yoshi's bowl with the chopsticks clenched in his fist like a tiny pike and his tongue stuck between his teeth in concentration.

" _Mikey!"_ he scolded, dismay in every inch of his face. "I told you to stay put!" It was more than older sibling embarrassment that had Leonardo rushing over, looking something more like horrified at the scene where there should have been at least a touch of humor. "H- Hamato-san, I'm really sorry, I thought he would—"

"Do not worry—Leonardo, was it? He's been wonderful company," Yoshi interrupted calmly, reacting on pure instinct to calm the boy's frazzled nerves. "I much prefer lunch in the company of others, anyway."

It wasn't what Leonardo seemed to be expecting, and he slowed to a stop on the opposite side of the counter. Mikey blinked up at him through his curls, and then grinned, lifting his chopsticks in triumph.

"Look, Leo! Yo-shi taught me chopsticks!"

Leonardo's smile for him seemed to be an automatic thing, and his eyes darted back to Yoshi after a moment. It seemed as though any kindness given his brothers was disarming, the towering walls in his face giving way in face of the books Donatello had brought home, and the soggy, escaped shrimp Mikey was chasing across the counter with his fingers.

"Thanks," he said quietly, and the word built a bridge between them.


	3. Chapter 3

The last thing Yoshi expected was for Leonardo to warm to him the fastest of the four, and yet that seemed to be the case. The blue-eyed child was never without his youngest brother in tow, but every time he pushed open the restaurant's heavy front door, and spotted Yoshi in his now-usual seat at the counter, his young face lit up with a joy that wrapped fingers around Yoshi's heart and held fast to it.

"He's really taken to you," Murakami said in his easy-going way, with a hint of amusement Yoshi could only pick out after having spent so much time around him. "I'm glad. Children his age are still so impressionable, and he could have done a lot worse for a role model than you."

Given what Yoshi knew of the boys' situation at home—or the lack thereof, and really, _that_ was what kept him up at night—Leonardo didn't have much of anyone to look up _to,_ and a whole lot of little someones to look after. Maybe it shouldn't have come as such a surprise, after all, that he would grow so attached, in the easy manner children did, in so short a time.

"Hi, Hamato-san," he greeted eagerly, hand in hand with little Michelangelo, whose overlarge scarf had come unwound, and trailed behind him like a shabby orange tail. "Did you eat already?"

"I was waiting for you," he replied warmly, for the sake of watching Leonardo's face, flushed and red with cold, split in a smile that made him look his age. Michelangelo tugged away from Leonardo and made a beeline straight for Yoshi, and Yoshi didn't need to think to stoop and open his arms for him. "You've been working very hard," the man continued, rocking Michelangelo back and forth in a way that made him giggle. "Have you been getting enough rest?"

"Sure," Leonardo said, gathering up the dragging end of his brother's scarf. "We all sleep together. It helps keep Raph warm, and Donnie and Mikey are scared of the dark."

Michelangelo chimed in with a cheerful, "nuh-uh!" but Yoshi felt a nudge of concern. Raphael should not have still been sick if he was getting the rest and medicine he needed. "It is cold where you sleep?"

"Kinda. There isn't any power, all we have is flashlights and a little electric lantern. Donnie says we have to save the batteries, 'cause he only found a few more."

Murakami was silent as he set about making their lunch. Yoshi struggled to keep his voice light.

"Do you have blankets? Or winter coats? Warm things to wear at night?"

Leonardo blinked down at his hands, rolling the scarf between his fingers. "Yes," he said, and Yoshi thought he knew him well enough to pick out the lie. He sat back, while Mikey poked curiously through his coat pockets, and considered his next words carefully.

The last thing he wanted was to cross a line, and give the doors in those wide ocean eyes any excuse to close.

"I only ask," Yoshi added slowly, before the tentative trust Leo had in him could be expunged by any verbal misstep, "because I have some extra things at home. I run a school for the martial arts from my estate, and over the years I've amassed quite the lost-and-found collection. Since I've no need for any of it myself, it would really be doing me a favor if you could take one or two things off my hands."

And like magic, Leonardo's face grew light again, a window opening wide to let in the sun.

"You run a _martial arts_ school?"

Yoshi managed to keep his bone-wracking relief to himself, covering his sigh with a smile. "I manage the business end of things. I don't teach anymore, myself—" and for a reason, perhaps, the boys did not need to know "—but the techniques are my family's, passed down through generations. I'll have to show you the dojo sometime."

And before he left that evening, Yoshi pressed a small prepaid cellphone into Leonardo's hands. Prepared for the way Leonardo tensed and tried to shove it back at him, and having none of it.

"If you need anything," he said, very clearly, so that Leonardo had no choice but to listen to every word, "and you can't come to Murakami-san, for whatever reason—then call me. I will be here for you."

The warm interior of Murakami's restaurant, where Yoshi first saw the boys, and since had been coming to meet them like clockwork for the better part of a month, drove the idea home; Yoshi was a _constant_ to them now. Someone familiar, and—ever so timidly—someone they could trust.

Leonardo had curled his fingers around the phone for a long moment that stretched between them like something physical, then crammed it into the pocket of his jacket, with a murmured word of thanks. And Yoshi didn't worry at the way Leonardo couldn't meet his eyes, because at a glance, he knew the difference between wounded pride and gratitude so fierce it shook you like a storm. He had felt both.

And he felt better for it, glad that if they needed help, those brave, dear children had a way to reach him—

But when he got that first phone call, several nights later at close to one o'clock in the morning, it all but froze his heart. Leonardo's voice in his ear, soft and hushed and so, so afraid, propelled Yoshi out of the peaceful dim of his personal rooms and into his shoes and coat in record time, rushing to his car with the phone still pressed to his ear.

 _"Hamato-san? It's_ — _it's Leo. I'm sorry it's so late, but_ — _you said call if I need help, and_ — _and Raph's gotten worse."_


	4. Chapter 4

Maybe under different circumstances, there would have been a fight to have with Raphael. Yoshi had certainly heard stories from his brothers about his hard-headedness and short temper, and had reconciled himself with the inevitable, uphill struggle it would be to gain his trust as Yoshi had his brothers. Surely, he had assumed, Raphael would not be so easily won over by books or attention.

But as it was, Raphael's dulled green eyes tracked over Yoshi's face almost listlessly, and he didn't move, save for pulling Michelangelo, where he lay tucked against Raphael's side, a little bit closer. He didn't fight the hand that Yoshi brought to his forehead, only shuddering at the difference in their body temperature; having come straight from outside, Yoshi's hand probably felt cool against his face, flushed red with fever. Yoshi allowed his palm to rest there, gently, against the curve of Raphael's brow, and the child's eyes drooped shut at the small comfort.

It did not sit well with Yoshi at all, and it was only the learned, iron self-control he had gleaned over a lifetime of training that kept his voice calm and level as he stroked the fringe out of the sick boy's eyes.

"I have medicine," he said carefully. "But as he's had this fever for longer than a few days, I think it's time for him to see a doctor."

If an electric current had run through the room in the next moment, Donatello and Leonardo couldn't have looked any more alarmed. Raphael seemed to have dozed off in between one moment and the next, with Michelangelo patting his cheek in as comforting a gesture as a sleepy six year old was capable of; and so it was just the other two Yoshi had to convince.

"His body is trying to burn out an infection," Yoshi continued, holding Leonardo's wide eyes with his own. "That's where fever comes from. If it hasn't managed that yet, there might be something very wrong- do you understand?"

Leonardo looked pale and cornered, and his hands were folded into fists that shook; but his eyes trailed from Yoshi to land on Raphael, and it didn't take him long to concede with a nod. Yoshi was almost staggered by relief. He certainly wouldn't want to remove Raphael by force- even with good intentions, it would have ruined his relationship with the boys beyond hope of repair- but it was hugely gratifying to see proof that Leonardo's trust in him managed to overshadow his critical, cautious misgivings toward the rest of the world.

"The doctor will ask a lot of questions," Donatello said abruptly, brow furrowed. "And they'll want to talk to mama, won't they? We can't do that, Mr. Hamato. We'll get in trouble. And besides, we don't have any money to go to a doctor's office."

Yoshi extracted Michelangelo from the bedpile, guiding him toward Leonardo, and tucked Raphael's blankets in around him before easing him up. The night air would do him no favors, but it wouldn't really be too much colder outside than it was in the apartment the boys were squatting in- _squatting,_ in the winter, and none of them older than ten years old- and it wouldn't be for very long.

"Get your things together," he said, standing with Raphael cradled carefully in his arms. "And we aren't going to a clinic, Donatello. Do you remember what I told you, about the school that I run?" Donatello nodded reluctantly, even as he pulled his duct taped bag on over his shoulder. Leonardo was crouched to help Michelangelo pull on his little yellow sneakers, but Yoshi could tell he was listening intently. "Well, I have a medic on call at all times, in case there's any kind of accident. She's a dear friend to me, and she would be happy to help Raphael."

"So- if we aren't going to a clinic- " Leonardo blinked, and something so very close to hope edged into the corners of his eyes. "We're going home with you?"

"It is safe and warm," Yoshi said, "and no one will ask you questions there." With that, he turned to lead the way out of the apartment; but he didn't fail to notice the doubt on Donatello's face finally give way to relief, bright brown eyes fixated on Raphael with an unerring dedication wholly unique to him.

The apartment complex was abandoned, an old, weathered brownstone building that looked ready for demolition. There certainly wasn't any heat or electricity or running water. It was nearing the holidays, and school was out until mid-January, and daycares cost a pretty penny these boys just didn't have. Without someplace warm and light and _free_ for them to go, they had no choice but to hole up in the tiny place they had carved out for themselves.

The front door opened with a moan, and the concrete steps down to the sidewalk were crumbling around the edges, and they were headed out into dark, cold December; but Michelangelo skipped the cracks in the steps in a practiced manner, giggling happily, unafraid of falling because Leonardo's hand was wrapped tightly around his.


	5. Chapter 5

Raphael, as it turned out, would be fine with plenty of rest and some antibiotics. He slept most of the visit away, tucked comfortably in one of the guest rooms with a wide window view of the city. His brothers were hesitant to leave him at first, crowded with him into the large queen bed and blinking doe eyes at the fine, richly dressed room they had woken up in.

Yoshi coaxed them out with the promise of pancakes for breakfast. Leonardo hesitated the longest in the doorway, looking over his shoulder at Raphael's sleeping figure, before Michelangelo's small hand in his tugged him the rest of the way out.

There were blueberries, blackberries, bananas and strawberries to go in the pancakes, and the boys were delighted at the shapes Yoshi managed to craft for them. He was rusty, but soon the kitchen was full with laughter and there was more playtime than perhaps there should have been at the breakfast table, resulting in sticky fingers and sticky faces, but it was the lightest Yoshi's heart had been in years.

For Raphael, warm oatmeal, with soft apples and cinnamon. It would soothe his throat and hopefully lull him back into a peaceful sleep. The sick boy managed to sit up and hold the bowl on his own, studying Yoshi silently while he ate. His eyes were as bright on their own as they had been with fever, an unflinching, poison green that looked straight through Yoshi and saw—something. If he passed muster or not, Yoshi wasn't sure, because Raphael only spoke up to say thank you, or ask after his brothers; nothing more.

The boys enjoyed their visit; though it took almost a full day of tentative adaptation, by their second morning they were exploring every inch of the Hamato estate. Between the library and the dojo, and the full run of the rest of the house, they had _more_ than enough to keep occupied, and little Michelangelo looked as though he'd never seen _any_ of the Disney movies that had once belonged to Yoshi's baby girl.

He quickly became enraptured with _The Aristocats_ , _Robin Hood_ , and—for better or worse— _Tarzan_. His brothers never outright _blamed_ Yoshi for Michelangelo's newfound affinity for climbing shelves and leaping off of them with a wild jungle cry; but the disgruntled expressions they would shoot him as they attempted to corral the six year old said more than enough. Yoshi made a mental note to dig out _The Lion King_ next time, or perhaps _Peter Pan._

"They'd like that," he mused after they had gone to bed, moving through the house and picking up after the tornado that was three young, energetic children. "Those little lost boys."

He only wished it were not the holiday season, and that he had classes the Italian children would be able to watch or join in on in the next few days. As it was, Leonardo wandered his way into the training room several times—always jumping when Yoshi found him there and apologizing for overstepping his bounds, but Yoshi could not miss the way the boy's ocean eyes lingered on the gleaming hilts of the katana mounted on the wall, how they caught on the grappling mats and trailed over the framed competition photos on the wall.

There was a hunger in him. A graceful, yearning ache that defined him, down to the last molecule, down to the last electrical impulse in his brain. The child _wanted._ He wanted so much, so badly.

Maybe in another life, it would have been different. Maybe Leonardo would not have been born with such a sorry inheritance, such a troubled heart. Yoshi could not imagine him without his brothers, but maybe in another lifetime, Leonardo could have been a child with them for a little while longer. Maybe they could have grown up together, silly and wild and troubled and passionate and never, not for one moment, lonely.

Watching them crawl into Raphael's bed each night, crowding around each other in a familiar way, Yoshi found himself praying that the day would never come that saw even one of them alone.

On the morning of the fifth day, when Raphael was sturdy and steady on his feet, and joined them for breakfast in the kitchen, they announced that they couldn't stay any longer. They must have talked amongst themselves the night before, because they greeted Yoshi in a united front.

"If you could—if you could drop us off at home," Leonardo hedged, fingers curled too tightly around a plate of scrambled eggs, "that would be... I mean, you've already done so much for us, I—"

Yoshi could not ignore the sinking pit in his stomach, though he didn't let it show on his face. Michelangelo was balanced on a stool beside the counter and carefully whisking more eggs and cheese together in a plastic bowl with a plastic fork, and Yoshi focused instead on him, steadying the child with a hand on his shoulder.

"It would be no trouble," he said, after a beat of silence. "And it was no trouble having you boys here. You're welcome to stay—I have finally gotten used to the sound of running feet through the halls, it will take me even longer to get used to the sound of silence."

Donatello smiled, a wistful gesture for such a young face, and Leonardo seemed to swallow heavy words, blinking owlishly at the tabletop rather than meet Yoshi's eyes. It was Raphael who spoke up, in a voice that was hoarse and sick-sore.

"We ain't a charity case." He didn't blink or waver, hadn't yet touched his food. "I appreciate what you did for us, but you didn't have to. I dunno why you did. And we've been doin' fine on our own."

The _"We don't need you,"_ went unsaid. And Yoshi knew better than to take personal offense, because these boys were wildly independent, wildly self-reliant, and living in the broken, hollowed shell of a derelict apartment building rather than risk losing one another by asking for help. Yoshi knew that it would be an uphill battle from day one, when he first met a hungry Donatello in Murakami's restaurant. It was his mistake for expecting too much of these lost boys, these tenacious, hard-shelled little people.

What did he expect? That they would never want to leave, because what Yoshi had to give was better than what little they had? He was a fool for forgetting their pride, and the careful, guarded way they looked at the world.

But he couldn't help trying to reach them, one more time.

"You've done more for yourselves at such a young age than I've seen some adults manage," he said truthfully, watching something _finally_ flicker through Raphael's sharp eyes like tiny, darting fish. "I wanted to help you, because you've managed so much already and you could use my help. It's the right thing to do."

Leonardo seemed to sag a little, eyes still fixed down, and Donatello carefully didn't say anything. Michelangelo was humming as he stirred the eggs, and Raphael sat back in his chair with a satisfied air.

Though he sounded more miserable than anything, as he said, "See? You don't care about us. All you care about is the _right thing._ And that makes you a good guy, but it don't make you family."


	6. Chapter 6

He didn't see the boys for close to a week after that, though not for lack of trying on his part; and Leo looked surprised to see him at Murakami's small restaurant when they finally crossed paths again. He stood frozen over the threshold, one hand on the door and the other wrapped around one of Michelangelo's, as though he couldn't be sure it was safe to move.

He looked thin and weary and unsubstantial, as though one stiff wind might blow him away. Yoshi wondered, for the dozenth time, if he was doing help or harm by refusing to report them to child services. They seemed to be doing fine for themselves, but appearances could be misleading, and Yoshi had seen where they _live._

"Come inside," Yoshi said after a moment. "You're letting the cold in."

The boy blinked, and took a few steps forward with his brother, letting the door shut behind him. Michelangelo lit up at the sight of Yoshi by the counter, and tugged out of Leonardo's grasp to cross the room to Yoshi at a run.

" _Hi,_ Yo-shi! I missed you!"

"And I missed you, little one," Yoshi replied fondly, and when Michelangelo held out his arms expectantly he stooped to lift the child into his lap. Looking over his curly head at his older brother, who still lingered near the door, Yoshi added a gentle, "I have missed _all_ of you. I hope you have been well."

And that was all it took for Leonardo's face to crumple, and his shoulders hunched up around his ears like the broken wings of a bird at the same time his head tilted forward just enough that his messy fringe curtained his window eyes. One hand went up to cover his mouth and the other curled into a fist in the fabric of the navy blue coat Yoshi had given him before they parted ways, and his skinny frame started to shake silently.

"Oh, Leonardo," Yoshi said, crestfallen and _aching_. "There's no reason to cry."

Michelangelo slipped out of his arms to the floor again, and crossed the room at a quick trot. His trademark smile was gone, faded into something just shy of upset—it was with a worried, searching expression that he wrapped his arms around Leo's middle and peered up into his face.

"Leo?"

But it was as though floodgates had opened, and once the tears started they simply wouldn't stop. He was so clearly, wretchedly miserable—crying in that sincere, whole-hearted manner children cried, but as softly as he could, muffling the sounds behind mittened fingers as though he could swallow up the despondence somehow, and keep everyone from seeing that his heart was breaking if only he was very, very quiet.

Yoshi stood and moved towards him slowly, like he was an animal that might startle. Michelangelo turned an unhappy gaze up to him as he came near, a frown tugging his mouth down deeply at the corners. There were sympathetic tears in his eyes, sad because his brother was sad even if he didn't understand why, and Yoshi spared a moment to wonder at how long this breakdown was in coming for the leader of this little clan of lost boys.

"Leonardo," he said, as gently as he could while his own heart was breaking in sympathy—hesitating only a moment before he put his hands on both of Leonardo's trembling shoulders. " _Kitto umaku ikuzo._ It will be okay. You are not alone in this world, I promise you that."

Leonardo leaned forward until he could turn his face against Yoshi's coat and take shelter there. Yoshi wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and left the other free for Michelangelo to burrow beneath.

"I missed you, too," he finally admitted, the barest of whispers. "So does Donnie and Mikey. Raph won't say it, but I think he feels bad."

"There's no need for that. You're all just doing the best you can."

"But even if you're not family, you're _good,"_ Leo continued, something stout creeping into his voice, replacing the sadness bit by careful bit. "Raph said so himself. And if you're good, you're safe. We can trust you, can't we?"

He was so young, _impossibly_ young, and asking such old questions; in the back of his mind, Yoshi felt a brutal, stark fear take root, of what might have happened to these boys had they trusted in someone who was _not_ good or kind. What might have happened if someone with cruel intentions had managed to win Leonardo's faith.

"You can trust me," he said, absolutely shaken at the thought of missing these boys before he'd ever met them. His grip around them tightened, a warm embrace he hoped would leave an impression, and added, "I may not be family, but I would like the chance to be."

He doubted that he was as _good_ a person as they seemed to hold him to be; but he would sooner walk through a bed of fire than leave the four of them wanting for anything, and he doubted that would ever change.

"Do you still have the phone I gave you?" he asked before the boys departed, hugging Michelangelo goodbye for the fourth time in as many minutes at his behest. "You know to call me if you need anything, right?"

And Leonardo—pale-faced, with puffy, red-rimmed eyes—smiled at him, and said, "I know. I will."

But it was Donatello who called, two days later, as Yoshi was finishing some paperwork at home.

He had the number of the phone he'd given them saved in his own phone, and answered immediately when he saw the Caller I.D. "Hel—"

" _Mr. Hamato,"_ Donatello shouted breathlessly on the other line, sounding at once panic-stricken and tearful, and a pit of ice sank to the bottom of Yoshi's stomach. " _Leo's hurt. It's his arm, his elbow's bent all wrong— Mr. Murakami wants to call an ambulance, but Leo won't let him, and— and I don't know what to do, Mr. Hamato, please help me."_


	7. Chapter 7

It was snowing when he arrived, and Donatello was waiting outside Murakami's small restaurant, alone in the dark.

"Mr. Hamato," he said, eyes wide and red, surging a step forward as Yoshi rushed to meet him. "You—you came." He made an aborted gesture with his hands, as though he wanted to reach out to the man and stopped himself in the last second.

Yoshi didn't have similar reservations. He stooped so they were at eye level with each other, and cupped the child's cold face in one hand. "Are you alright?" he asked, heart in his throat. "Donatello, what happened? Where is Leonardo?"

Donatello wrapped his hands around Yoshi's wrist, clinging for all he was worth. Truly, visibly shaken, and pale with the footprint of lingering fear, but he didn't hesitate to tug Yoshi toward the door—pushing it open with one thin shoulder and dragging him inside.

Nothing could have prepared Yoshi for the sight of Leonardo, sitting on a stool and hunched under a woolen blanket, arm cradled carefully in his lap. He lifted stark blue eyes when the bell above the door jingled, and the moment he saw Yoshi, his carefully guarded expression changed, crumpling with tears as he lifted his good arm in a gesture Yoshi would have recognized anywhere.

Donatello let Yoshi's arm go, and long strides ate up the distance between the man and the injured boy in a matter of seconds. He folded Leonardo into his arms, and wondered how on earth he could be convinced to let him go _this_ time.

"What is this, little one?" he asked, smoothing Leonardo's hair with one hand while the child shuddered from pain or relief or some complicated combination of the two, burrowing tighter into Yoshi's embrace. "You're hurt—why wouldn't you let Murakami-san take care of you?"

"No hospital," Leonardo said quietly. "We _can't_ , Mr. Hamato. They'd ask where mamma is. If they knew she was gone, they would take my brothers away." He leaned back, and lifted a grave gaze to meet Yoshi's. "I knew you'd come help us, though."

And on one hand, it was absolutely ridiculous that a ten-year-old would refuse medical services. Even more so that the kindly restaurant owner had taken his opinion into account, and allowed Donatello to call Yoshi, instead of an ambulance or an emergency clinic. It didn't make sense that this was still standard operating procedure; that this little child could still be allowed to call the shots, even with a broken arm and a pale, pained face.

But on the other hand, Leonardo was a strong-willed and stubborn thing. Smart, too—practicing a caution that verged upon paranoia where his brothers were concerned, but sparing himself none of the same concern. Watching adults come and go from his life, and learning to expect nothing from them. Like the mythological Cosmic Turtle supporting the world on its back, Leonardo bore the weight of his family without flinching or faltering—and that he was here at all, that he hadn't disappeared with Donatello the moment he was able, that he was whole blocks away from Raphael and Michelangelo and waiting patiently for Yoshi, trusting in him to make this better, instead of running home to the rest of his family at once, said more than words ever could have.

"I _knew_ you'd come," Leonardo said again, the beginnings of a smile forming on his face. It made him look his age, for a change, and Yoshi shook his head.

"Before anything else," he said, with a fondness he knew would be his downfall, "let's get that arm of yours taken care of."

* * *

Donatello sat waiting tensely in the quaint reception area, perched uneasily on a tufted bench; and his wide, red eyes flew to meet Yoshi's as the man stepped out of the small examination room, and he surged to his feet.

"Mr. Hamato," he said in a rush, "is Leo okay? How's his arm? Is he cooperating with the doctor?"

"He is going to be just fine," Yoshi soothed, allowing a small smile. "Dr. Pride reset his arm and is molding the cast now. I only stepped out to make sure you were alright."

Donatello blinked rapidly, hands balled into anxious fists. "He's really okay?" he asked in a small voice. "He was hurting so bad. He wouldn't let me see, and he wouldn't let Mr. Murakami call anyone—"

"He's okay, I promise you."

Yoshi offered his arms, and where Leonardo and Michelangelo would have flocked to them immediately, Donatello hesitated—and then his face folded, and his hands went out, and he was buried against Yoshi a moment later. If it weren't for his thin shoulders shaking, Yoshi might not have known he was crying; and wild horses could not have stopped Yoshi in that moment from holding him close.

"I was worried you wouldn't come," Donatello sobbed, muffled where he was hidden against Yoshi's coat, fingers folded tight in the fabric, "after we were so horrible to you. But there was no one else—Leo wouldn't let us call anyone else—and you _came._ And I was—and I was so happy to see you."

"Of course I did. I would not have given you four the phone had I not meant for you to use it," he said gently, smoothing a hand over Donatello's mop of hair. "Hush, little one. There's no reason to cry. Your brother is fine. You are safe and sound."

There were many things that Yoshi would always remember. He would remember the moment his brother left him, and denounced their family name; he would remember moving to New York City, opening his school, teaching his first class of bright-eyed, eager children; he would never forget the day he married a kind woman and adopted her small daughter as his own, and he would never forget the day they were lost to him in a tragic accident; the moment two days after the funeral when he decided that he would never teach again, that opening his heart again to anyone, even just to a student, would be too painful for him to bear; and he would remember the moment a little boy with brown eyes came into his life, and with him three brothers, one unremarkable winter afternoon.

 _And now,_ he thought, arms warm around Donatello's shoulders, _I will always remember this._

The door opened behind them, and Leonardo and Dr. Pride stepped out of the examination room. Dr. Pride flipped off the stark fluorescents behind them, leaving just the warmly lit reception area. Leonardo hurried from the doctor's side to Yoshi's, and Donatello glanced up with only a second to spare, before Leonardo was hugging him tight in his good arm.

"I told you I was fine," he said, "you didn't need to be scared."

"But—" Donatello was blinking through more tears despite himself, looking as though he wanted to hide his face in Leonardo's shoulder at the same time he wanted to look his brother in the eye. "But Leo, you were right about him. All along. I shouldn't have—I should have _listened_ to you. And now, you're hurt, and it—and it's all my—"

"You didn't do anything wrong," Leonardo told him firmly. "Don't be stupid. And don't cry, Donnie—I'm okay."

Yoshi overheard them as he thanked Dr. Pride for her time, and accepted a prescription from the woman for a pain reliever they could fill at the twenty-four hour pharmacy right down the street. He waited until he had ushered them out of the small private clinic and back to his car to ask, "You know the person that hurt you?"

Leonardo blinked at him, and then nodded, letting Donatello crawl into the backseat first. "Yeah. He's a friend of Raphie's," the boy said. "He doesn't like me, because I told Raph not to play with him anymore."

"I see," Yoshi said, and then reached over to smooth the messy fringe back out of Leonardo's face, allowing a smile. "Get inside before you catch a cold. We'll fill your prescription, and then pick up a pizza to take home to your brothers. How does that sound?"

The plan was met with bright grins of approval, and the injection Dr. Pride had given Leonardo had already dulled some of those harsh lines of pain around his eyes. He clambered into the car after his brother, and Yoshi waited until they were both buckled in before he shut the door and moved to the driver's side door.

Giving himself one, brief, despairing moment in the cold and dark before he opened it; closing his eyes and beseeching some higher power for guidance, because he was almost certain he loved these children, and they were not his to love.


End file.
